The Western Wall is notes perfumed
With a Love two thousand years wide.
I accidentally brushed hands pressed
With sweat and hope.

The bazaar of Marrakech
Is leather and sour sumac.
The vendors’ ululations are
My call to morning prayer.
Though I haggle with no one,
I am never alone.

As I’m carried away in a whoosh
Of motors, the streets of Trastevere
Hold me tight and smell of tripe.
A laundress with the voice of a toad
Barks romanesco at a man
From Bangladesh who hawks roses:
They are both Rome to me.

I can feel the cobblestones sinking,
But my bigoli in salsa whisper
In reassurance: There will always be
A Venice nestled in my memories.

The Prague Clock of the Old Town Square
Sounds like the face of a friend
As it rings out the places of the stars.
The underground trains speed
Toward Prosperity, with intercom
Voices that are soothing to me.

The salesmen of Soviet berets
Sing dirges; their nostalgia
Is their currency and their deceit.
Prague is the city of the future
Of the past.

Cities without sight:
Luna Parks for the mind
Conceal the mysteries of the soul.